I want my Mommy!

I've been hearing this a lot lately. Usually from an overtired and very stubborn 2 year old... in the loud, whine of an overtired and very stubborn 2 year old. And after 100 rounds or so I find myself wanting to tune it out.

I should be more empathetic. I know just how she feels. I'm tired. I'm overwhelmed. And whatever it is, I just want to be rescued from it. Scooped up and hugged and fed and talked to sweetly until I'm lulled to sleep. I want my Mommy, too. And the frustration of not having access to her... well, I guess I can understand that relentless whining after all.

My mom has been gone for 13 years next month. Cancer. That vulture of a disease. It feels like a lifetime ago. And it feels like last week. And, when I really let myself think about how much I'd like to see her, there isn't enough air. The idea of "never" suffocates me, so I can't spend much time contemplating the passage of time. It's a concept that only creeps in and occurs to me, often as a jarring rediscovery.

The winter is abundant with such crippling realizations. The crisp air or the dirty, crusty remains of snow... a song on the radio... something, anything, can set me off and it all comes flooding back to me. I am overwhelmed by the sick flutter in my stomach as I force the words I hate out of my mouth: "Dad, you have to sign the DNR." I can feel my throat swelling shut, resisting the urge to cry as I brace myself and prepare to set my mother free. Choosing every word carefully in case it's the last one she hears. The blue vinyl chairs and the hospital smells. And wondering if the little vials of morphine that we learned to administer at home might give me some relief from the suffering I was seeing.

These memories can stab me at any time without warning. 13 years later I have to remind myself that it's real. And the realization is always unwelcome. My reaction to it never changes. "I want my Mommy." But I continue to visit even the most agonizing of these memories. Because they're of my Mom. Even in the most painful moments, she was there and she loved me.

I always think that after an experience like mine, a person would be forever changed. Deeper. Kinder. Patient, at least. But it doesn't work that way. You still have to work to become the person you'd like to be. The lessons are there, but it's on us to apply them. It seems you can feel how unbearable it is to lose someone you love so much and still take your other loved ones for granted. You can witness how one moment can change the course of the universe and then waste entire days on laziness or anger. And how many times have I strayed onto the path of least resistance? Human nature is absurd to me that way.

So, I'm reviewing the lessons here. They were so painfully acquired - I'd be a fool to waste them.

A mother's love is critical. 40 years in I still need to tap into it to get through a difficult day. And it's my turn. My privilege. Each day with these three little inspirations is a gift. There are smiles to be made. Games to be played. Memories to create. Love to share and absorb and infuse and radiate. So that relentless cry of "I want my mommy"... that is my chance. My opportunity to be there. Here.